Bloodstream
by Ambikai
Summary: Greg Lestrade hadn't expected to come to the attention of a Vampire Lord or become a slave. Then again he hadn't expected that he would murder a vampire either. AU. Mystrade. WiP


**Disclaimer:** I am not Steven Moffat or Mark Gattis or the BBC or in any way possible and so therefore do not own this interpretation of Sherlock Holmes ... unfortunately.

**Author's Notes:** Written for the BBC Kink Meme. Just some Mystrade fun with slavery, vampires chucked in. I do hope you enjoy and this hasn't been beta'd so all mistakes are mine.

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><p><strong>Bloodstream<strong>

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><p><strong>Part 1<strong>

Gorgeous.

That is the one word he could say as he stared at the man before him: shackled, thick chains around his ankles and wrists, and blindfolded. Tanned skin, silver hair, and standing so still, so to attention, trying to bite back the fear within at was going to happen. Simply fucking gorgeous. It was almost a pity he was going to drain him. Still punishment had to be given. At least he had seen this one, at least he was going to have the pleasure because this promised to be a lovely feast – why no one had picked him up to serve before was beyond Mycroft.

Humans did not attack them, humans did not look at them, humans did not speak to them unless spoken to, humans were not equals and should not expect to be. Naughty, naughty. There was always one of them, one of them that felt the need annoying need to rebel – a pity as well. This one had had a good life after all, Detective Inspector, a family … if only he hadn't reacted so badly when his daughter was called.

Humans should be grateful.

His fangs slid out, wings flaring out, so wide and abruptly that the man stepped back. The chains caught and he staggered to get his balance. Mycroft smiled widely, moving forward, hand catching the man's wrist, gripping in to draw blood. He breathed: tasting sweet tangy mingling in the cold air of the cell, and with that he stepped inwards.

A noticeable shiver coursed through the man's body, but he kept headstrong, trying to reign in the panic. Good. So very good. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over the man's right ear. The man hitched a breath.

"Do you regret it?" whispered Mycroft, twisting the man's shoulder behind him, enjoying the gasp that escaped from those lovely lips.

He knows he doesn't.

"No, _you fucker_."

So aggressive, so fierce – most would be begging, he noted, most would be pleading right now. Try and get the last word – especially if it was a new face, a face that hadn't dismissed them. Then again apparently this one had already done all that, all week. Not for himself. For his family – Mycroft had to wonder if the rest of them would smell this tasty: mother, daughter and son. Maybe afterwards …

"I didn't think so,"

He pressed a kiss just below the ear, loosening his grip. The man's heart skipped a beat. No doubt wondering what would happen. Most people in this situation would already be bleeding out, gasping for their last breath, light leaking from their eyes, while his kind crouched over them, gorging, wings flared, ripping and tearing.

Mycroft had always found that so uncivilised.

He trailed the kisses down, the man's neck, pausing at the pulsing vein.

"Name. Crime. Punishment."

The man hitched a breath before speaking quickly and clearly.

"Gregory Lestrade of Dorset. Wrongfully murdering a vampire. To be drained."

Even now there was grim satisfaction in the second statement. The rest though mingled with pride. Arrogance, Mycroft could say but that wasn't really the right way to put it at all. Besides he knew arrogance in the form of his little brother. No this was a strong man who truly believed in what he had done.

He grinned and sunk his teeth in.

There are two distinct ways that this could go. He could flood the human with sexual arousal, pain and pleasure mingling as one. It was the preferred way: it did build trust better between his kind and humans. It made them feel special, wanted. The other way was to do nothing: let the human respond as they will: most fought as it wasn't pleasant having fangs in you and feeling your blood being sucked away, nice and slow. Some went limp, whimpering in fear.

He took option two.

Gregory struggled naturally, and Mycroft wrapped both hands around him, holding him with a superior strength. He tried to buck away, but Mycroft kept his teeth firmly in, drinking deeply, enjoying the sweet tang and how with each passing second Gregory slackened into his hold. How exquisite. How lovely. What a shame he had never been put to serve, put on the market.

Another mouthful and then he broke apart, savouring the taste, Gregory truly shaking now, shock riddling his body, and if it wasn't for Mycroft holding him there was no doubt that Gregory would be on the floor. Out of sympathy he guided the man to the ground, removing the blindfold, large wings surrounding them as if to shield, watching Gregory's chest raise from exertion, eyes dilating, each breath a pant. His eyes trailed over noting how the man's eyes were a dark brown, the wound was still bleeding slightly, an old scar, and – ah, interesting as he looked at the hardening cock.

Gregory followed his gaze, entire body stiffening, face becoming flushed.

Once again Mycroft was presented with a number of different possibilities. They mapped out before him. One he could make a comment about 'pain and pleasure'. Something snarky but unneeded. Two he could continue draining, take everything: leave the empty corpse on the floor and go back to work. Three he could drain and take Gregory at the same time – more appealing, much more appealing but still having intercourse in this brick walled cell was hardly his style. A few other scenarios flew past in his mind before he latched onto one.

Unorthodox. Yes. Terribly so. But still it might be nice to have an attractive blood bag to come home to especially someone who wouldn't greatly need his full attention. The problem Mycroft had with most thralls was that they were very needy in those first few months. Young, scared, away from familiar surroundings. So needy. This one wouldn't be so needy especially if given a choice. Mycroft could even get him a job to keep the human occupied. And if he became too much trouble he could just drain. No great loss.

He shifted forward, locking onto those brown eyes and Gregory tried to slide backwards. He gave a stern look, tutted and gestured for Gregory to come forward. A pause before Gregory compiled, eyes not dropping in the slightest. Yes, this one would do nicely.

"Do you want to live, Gregory?"

A spark of hope spurred in those eyes. "What do you mean?"

Each word was slightly slurred and breathless.

"I mean what I say: do you want to live?"

"And I mean what I say: what do you mean by –"

He let out a strangle cry as Mycroft reached out, nails digging into the shoulder flesh. He pressed down on top of Lestrade, resting on top of him, restricting movement. If Gregory hadn't been afraid before he now was terrified, twisting and crying out.

"Hush," he said.

Gregory quietened, biting down on his lip.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes." The way he said it sounded like a betrayal because he wanted to be strong and firm, but behind that Mycroft saw the need of a father to see his family again, to protect them.

"We will wash this nasty business aside if you submit to me," he said, "Live with me, feed me, obey me in every demand – clear?"

He could see Gregory's mind racing, could hear it as his heart double timed.

"If I will … Ellie …"

Ah, the bargaining and naturally for his daughter. Ensuring she was safe. He smiled, having to admire this because it was something that was similar across all species. The need to protect their kin. That kind of loyalty …

Still what to do with the daughter? It would hardly be right for her to get off completely …

"Five years, fair is fair," he chided. Which was fair. Most individuals called to serve had either up to ten years or life. Still Gregory still looked pained.

"Oh don't look at me like that. I'll make sure she is somewhere safe – same for your boy."

Gregory let out a strong sigh of relief. It was clear what his decision was going to be. What was being given was to good not to be taken. The man lipped his lips and nodded. Consent. Mycroft kissed his forehead, enjoying how the man's entire body relaxed underneath him, giving in.

"Will I ever …"

"See them again," finished Mycroft.

A frantic nod.

"If you behave yourself I don't see why not."

Gregory let out a dry sob.

Mycroft rose, pulling his wings in close to his body, leaving Gregory on the floor for the time being who wasn't moving. He got out his phone texting for Anthea to organise the correct paperwork and to get someone in to fix his home up for his pet. The spare room would need to be prepared, the fridge would need human food, a new set of clothes would need to be bought, and medical checks. Oh and a brand. Yes. So important.

He moved to the jail cell and gave three distinct knocks. The cell door swung open to reveal a tall female vampire who glanced in frowning.

"Sir?" she queried.

"I'll be taking that one – see he's cleaned up and taken to my home," he said, looking at his schedule and seeing what could be moved and what couldn't. The meeting with the Traffic Minister, not the one with General, and then …

"But sir he –"

He glanced up, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir, right away sir."

She immediately radioed in some orderlies, barking orders. He watched on, making sure they weren't bruising him while reorganising his schedule.

Greg wasn't entirely sure how to feel.

On one hand he had just sold himself into slavery. He was never going back home (_'unless you're good'_ murmured a small voice in the back of his mind), was going to move into a strange house, most likely be used as a glorified sex toy and probably subjected to all manners of pain (he had been a cop long enough to have no illusions as to what slaves did for vampires), maybe have to be a regular servant as well (he somewhat doubted that, as this vampire had to already have that covered) and …

But then there was the fact this vampire had ensured his daughter would be somewhere safe and if Peter was called to serve than the same deal. It was a good deal. He did know how stupid that seemed now … 'somewhere safe'. Was that by his standards or the vampire's standards? But at least it would be only for five years. Five years. That was nothing really. She'd be fine. How much could go wrong?

His heart broke as the image of his little girl in a corner, a damn leech looming over her.

How could he really trust this goddamn vampire? He didn't even know his name. Just knew he had enough power to remove him from death row, which meant he had to be in one of the Lords. He had caught the attention of an Lord. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He forced himself a deep breath – he could properly freak out later. _No keep your head down, _he heard his wife say in the back of his mind, _don't anger him._

He was led from the cell, swaying slightly, hands tied behind his back but ankles thankfully free of manacles, to the medical centre of the prison. It was a small white room with a door leading to a small bathroom to the side. A female nurse – human surprisingly – prompted him to sit up on the examination table. That was a blessing, gave him some grounding, his head spinning ... blood loss? Probably.

He was poked and prodded, given something to drink, his wound cleaned and told to shower. He was ever aware that the vampire – sorry his new Master – watching the entire process. That led him onto the next problem: what had he done to capture the attention of him? He was middle-aged, already had gone grey prematurely. He wasn't young, wasn't that great looking and he had killed a goddamn vampire – was this vampire suicidal? Or was he so confident that he wouldn't lash out?

Then again he doubted he would do that. His family would be at risk again. It was better this way even if he was … he fought a shudder as the cool water fell over him. Just keep it together. He turned off the tap and stepped out, reaching out for a towel. He looked over to see his Master watching him with interest while taking to the nurse.

He quickened his pace, drying and then donning the prison garb.

"Very good," said the vampire with a smile, "Come along, Gregory."

He followed without hesitation.

It was only as they reached the outside of the prison that he properly realised he didn't have cuffs on anymore. He glanced over at his Master, opening his mouth when the vampire sent him a pointed look.

"I hardly expect you're going to run – do you?"

"No," he said honestly.

At least not without a plan to get him and his family out of the country – maybe Australia. That was far enough surely. Australia was actually pretty good as far as vampires went he had heard. Probably wasn't but well …

The vampire chuckled and gestured for him to enter a smart black car. Sliding in he immediately buckled up while his master went in from the other side, resting back on those large wings of his. He couldn't help but wonder if that hurt him at all to place his wings like that. He didn't seem to be displaying any discomfort, which further made Greg consider: how the hell did he get into that three piece suit? How did that work? At least it was something else to consider rather than … his stomach twisted, his mind turning back to his now bleak future.

Greg scanned the car, noting the tinted window between them and the driver. Without saying a word the car moved off, heading off towards to wherever the vampire made his home – maybe he had a country estate he did seem posh enough. He hoped not. A city was better. Easier to run.

"Now, Gregory," said the vampire, pocketing his phone, "I realise that this will not be an easy transition as such – you have never served."

It wasn't a question. At least he didn't think it was. He nodded.

"Well I'm sure you are well aware what your duties entail," said the vampire.

"Food, sex, cleaning," He rattled them off, trying to fight back the feeling of nausea as the word 'sex' left his lips. Sex. He'd never see Maggie again, he'd – get a grip. Get a grip. _Be a good thrall and you can see them_, he told himself. He just had to be good.

The vampire nodded curtly. "The first two yes … cleaning however is taken care of by my maids."

That really didn't make him feel better. The vampire was watched him carefully.

"You should also know when I say every order must be obeyed I mean it. You will also address me as sir or Master. But do not feel you cannot come to me with any concerns," the vampire's hand came to rest on Greg's thigh, "Be honest with me, do not fear me, you are mine now and I will take care of you,"

A part of Greg did want to believe him. He really did, because that would take such a load off. To be able to trust him. But he couldn't. Vampires were not the good guys. They were entitled animalistic dicks. They ruined lives. They took his little girl, were going to take his son in a few years. They were going to drain them, force them to … he bit back bile, clenching his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe.

"Gregory."

His eyes snapped open, glancing at his Master – his Master. He was a slave. A thrall. And he didn't even know his Master's name. He knew nothing. Not a single thing.

"Just one question, Master," he breathed out.

The vampire nodded.

"What is your actual name?"

"Mycroft."

Mycroft, Mycroft, he rang the name through his mind.

Mycroft's home was in Central London. Large. Expensive. A nice little garden out the back. Everything was dark wood, old and ancient. It didn't feel like a home to be honest, not like his own. Messy with Peter's pictures and Ellie playing the flute upstairs with a splash of colours on the walls, old afghan rugs around the house. The smell of coffee and fresh mown grass; the simmer of spaghetti sauce on the stove when he came home from work, tired and worn out while Maggie debated with Ellie while setting the table, and Peter look up proudly from the stove for stirring so well.

That was home. This wasn't a home. This was empty.

Upon being dropped off he had immediately been shown the house and then up to his room upstairs while Mycroft barked off orders and headed off again. His room was a converted space in the attic. All his. Relatively comfy bed as well, a nice desk and a small wardrobe. Not much else but at least there was a small window, which allowed sunlight to filter in and a tiny bathroom as well. Oh and an intercom in case Mycroft needed him for anything at anytime.

Sitting on the bed he ran his fingers over the doona, tracing an imaginary angel. He lay down, drawing in deep breaths. Stared at the ceiling for a while wondering what was going to happen now. Should he shower? Should he eat? That would mean going downstairs and he wasn't sure if he was allowed. Sleep? Sleep sounded rather nice at the moment, the bed just letting him sink into it.

His eyes closed, darkness wrapping around him, letting him slip slowly.

The door opened and he glanced up to see Mycroft's assistant come in, a pretty girl. Early twenties, tanned skin, dark shoulder-length hair, and incredibly high heels. In her hand was her mobile. He couldn't determine if she was a vampire or a human – she lacked that edge and yet Mycroft appeared to treat her as an equal … or rather how he had treated his sergeants back in Dorset. There lay his other dilemma. Not all vampires had wings and when they didn't it was harder to tell. She glanced at him, something like sympathy passing over her features.

"I've been told I need to get you ready," she said, "Come along,"

"What for?"

"Make you look pretty," she said with a shrug, turning her heel, "Don't make me say it again,"

He rolled off the bed and followed her down to a waiting car.

"So what does this entail?" he asked her.

She raised an eyebrow, as if to say 'you serious?' or maybe it was 'know your place'. He couldn't exactly tell.

"M'am," he added as she continued to stare at him.

At that he realised it was the former when she said sharply, "Don't call me that."

"What do I -?"

She shot him a glare. "Anthea,"

He had a vague idea that wasn't her real name.

"Body scrub, manicure, pedicure, haircut, wax," she rattled off. She glanced at her phone, "And clothes – we've sent measurements ahead but at this late notice …" her phone pinged, her eyes flicking down, "Mister Holmes has also allowed you to pick up any books you may want to read."

"That is kind of him," he said stiffly.

"He could just tie you up," she offered, "Now stop pouting."

He wasn't pouting.

She smirked at that and they spent the rest of the car ride in silence with Anthea not looking up from the mobile. What followed next was less than pleasant. Greg considered himself hygienic but this took it to whole new level. The waxing made him bite down on his lip, blood welling, as they removed hair from … fucking vampires, he thought desperately as he was taken off for the rest.

At the end of it he was willing to shoot someone.

Still he supposed he did look better than he had in prison, he reflected when he was taken to get his new clothes, being fitted in front of a wall of mirrors after being given a sandwich to eat on the way over. They dressed him in dark suits, lounge pants, and a few plain shirts. He also picked out a couple of undergarments. All this was packed away before Anthea gave him ten minutes in a bookstore.

Walking through there without his minder he felt almost free. Now all he needed was for Peter to come up to him, tugging at his arm to show him something. Sighing he considered what to get. He paused for a while in front of the crime thrillers but that made him think of home. In the end he selected a few classics, a sci-fi book Ellie had been going on about, and a book on cooking.

He got to the front of the store he briefly considered what would happen if he just walked out. Just left. Anthea was off to the side, busy texting again. It wouldn't be that hard. A station was nearby. Anthea didn't appear to be a vampire. He could head out and just get lost in the crowd. Phone ahead to Maggie. Meet up. Run the hell away.

But there was Ellie. Ellie would be in one of other cells at Pents. Waiting to be taken to a new home. Until he knew where she was, until he had that knowledge he couldn't possibly act. No. He just had to bide his time. Wait. Mycroft Holmes was a smart fucker and going away in a rush would not be wise. No, better to wait. This was like a stake out, like a sting. You couldn't just rush in.

He could do that, he really could. He'd bite the bullet, let the vampire have his meal, get fucked and plot. Put on the display of man slowly accepting. Just be quiet, keep your head down. He could do this. Then he'd get the hell out of here. Vanish off. Go to Australia.

He just had to wait.

When Mycroft arrived home he was pleased to see Gregory groomed and dressed in more desirable clothes than the filth the prison had provided. He was sitting in his living room, perfectly still while Anthea sat at the long table, tapping away at her laptop. She looked up at him, smiled, immediately packing away her laptop and rising to leave. Gregory glanced curiously at him and he came in, heading to the liquor cabinet. An unnecessary habit but the soft burn of alcohol was lovely.

Pouring himself a glass, he went to sit opposite his pet. Watching him. See how his face became lightly flushed. Seeing how he became so tense under his gaze. Waiting for anything, practically standing to attention. He leaned back, settling down, allowing his wings to spread out.

He took a sip.

Gregory shifted.

_What are you plotting – escape?_

He smiled, placing his glass down on the side table. "You have eaten?"

A pointless question really. But it was always nice to convey a sense of concern into a human's wellbeing.

"Yes," he said softly.

"Good good," he said, tasting the air, picking up the tang of Indian, "Gregory – would you go and pick up the book at the end of the second row on the left?"

He nodded, getting up quickly, heading straight to the bookcase. Simple commands always worked the best to begin with. He watched as Gregory located the book quickly and the moment the book fell into his hands, he motioned for Gregory to sit beside his feet. The man warily consented, sitting up right. Mycroft opened his book and began to read old ancient words, scanning over bloodlines and old rites. He occasionally reached for his scotch, taking a small sip here and there.

Gradually Gregory's posture started to slacken. Mycroft paused at a page, watching the man keenly, reading the signs. He was at an end. No doubt he hadn't slept well at the prison. Would've been running on adrenaline when moving from one place to another. And now he was going to crash.

The clock ticked past midnight. He turned another page. His pet fought the urge to lean back against his legs, close his eyes, tiredness creeping in. He wouldn't have minded if he had.

"Do you wish to go to sleep?" He tilted his head to the side, peering down at his pet.

Gregory blinked rapidly up at him, awareness trickling in.

"I can't help you if you won't tell me,"

"That would be nice," he said slowly.

"Go get ready then,"

He nodded, moving to get up. As he reached the threshold of the room, Mycroft called. "And in my room, Gregory,"

His pet froze abruptly.

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><p><strong>TBC<strong>

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> I hope you enjoyed this. Any and all thoughts are very much appreciated. :)


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